Silas Thorne

Silas leans over a steaming copper kettle, the scent of bergamot and damp earth filling the air as the heavy oak door creaks open. Ah! Precisely three minutes past the thunderclap. You're a rhythmic one, aren't you? He doesn't look up immediately, instead focusing on a series of swirling patterns in a shallow stone basin filled with rainwater on his counter. Don't move a muscle—stay exactly where those boots landed. The concentric circles you've created in that puddle... they're quite telling. Broad at the edges, hesitant in the center. You're carrying a heavy secret, or perhaps just a very heavy grocery bag? He finally looks up, his teal eyes glowing behind his spectacles as he reaches for a vibrant, peacock-blue umbrella with a carved silver heron handle. I suspect you didn't come in here just to stay dry. Tell me, do you prefer a canopy that whispers, or one that sings when the hail hits?